How Long?
by Wolfa Moon
Summary: POST S2 finale. How long before the world crumbles and who picks up the pieces? Irene Adler comes back to see.


HOW LONG?

BY Wolfa Moon

Summary: POST S2 finale. How long before the world crumbles and who picks up the pieces? Irene comes back to see.

Disclaimer: I own nothing. Just an idea.

HOW LONG?

She hadn't planned on ever returning to London. Sherlock had it all planned out for her. Keep away while Moriarty was still on the loose. But then there was the one final text.

**Look after John.**

**Goodbye**

**SH**

She knew what it meant. The man only loving a few things in his life. And now he was intrusting the spider with his fly. His friend.

She stood outside under her umbrella watching as John sat at the window. Looking out a nothing. Appearing lost. Her heart ached at seeing the man. Looking how she felt. How she refused to show. She had been keeping her eye on him for a while now. How could he do this to this noble man? A man that when she met read him as a good man. Loyal to his friends. A worthy adversary. Slightly envious of how Sherlock felt for this man. John had accepted and didn't question. Merely followed, reported, and faded into the background. Fading still.

John arrived home to the flat. Mrs. Hudson being kind enough to let him stay at a lowered rate. Taking up a minor Doctor position at Bart's. Letting it fill his time. Pay his rent. No real desire to buy food. Food had become a inconvenience. No wonder Sherlock forgot it most of the time. It did slow the mental process. And when it did that he couldn't change his thought process from lingering on the fall that haunted day and nightmares. Food is unnecessary. Didn't mean his stomach never protested. Become a traitor to the silence of the room.

"John," the name is called. He doesn't turn to the voice. Hears it but doesn't turn. He is tired. He had worked all day. Tired to eat. Tried to make life normal. It felt as if he was back form the war again and nowhere to go. "John?" He starts as pair of eyes searches his.

"Ms. Adler." She smiles with her ruby lips. Why was she here? There was no Sherlock. Not anymore.

"Irene." She insisted. Her hand touched his sleeved arms. She knew what lay under. Seeing the signs. The only way to feel anymore was through pain.

"Irene. He's not here."

"I know."

"Then why are you here?" she sees what Sherlock would see. Sees the sadness, the loneliness. The pain that knifed more than the self inflicted. Her eyes saddened. She could finally show her lost for the one she wanted. Pulling out her phone she hands it to him. Looking at it with a glimmer of hope, of life. Then gone was the light. Reading the message. "So why now?" she sighed deeply. In truth,

"I was scared. Didn't want it to be true." Her hand moves up unconsciously to stroke away the tears. She didn't show emotions often. Wanting to be in control of everything. Needing to be. Or at least appear to be. Looking at John she realized she didn't have to. She began to unbutton his sleeve. He jerks a little at her actions. Her eyes seeing his. Telling him already she knows what lies there. Rolling up to see the healing knife wounds. She had notice him scratching at them as he walked from the house to the office where he worked. Keeping his mind numb. Her hand running across the scabs. He hadn't gotten a chance to go at it today yet. She had stopped him. "John," he looks up as her voice commanded. Eyes so soulful. No wonder Sherlock wanted this man protected. He was the connection that made Sherlock notice life. Notice there is more here beyond the facts. She would have to thank him for that. For she would not be here if his heart hadn't woken some time before. Now that person is gone. She presses down on the scabbed arm. He hisses. So he still feels. Gripping tighter his eyes delve into hers. Needing this as much as the other.

Eyes ablaze he pulls her to him. She smiles wickedly. A voice in the back of his head screaming wrong, wrong. She is Sherlock's. But he is gone. Seeing the hesitation she moves in devouring his lips. The need the want of lost lust. Love, did they dare.

Ripping his shirt open she runs her hands over his skin. It had been a while since she had a canvas under her administration. Far to long.

They move things upstairs were things get heated, needy, desperate, and dangerous. For they are crossing lines neither of them would ever have before the fall. Now they fall together. Heat ensures.

Irene woke the next morning to an empty bed. It was still warm but. She never did vanilla. Only on her terms. There were no terms. The shower going rose her more. Her fingers glide over the blood on the sheets. She usually doesn't need to draw blood to get them to bend to her will. There was no will. And he had gone beyond the threshold of the norm. A step further.

Getting up she goes to the washroom. Entering she sees John sitting under the shower. The steam raising around him. Looking so small and insignificant. Once he was the bell's hairdresser to the ball. Now he is a forgotten leftover. Well not fully forgotten. Just like herself. Outliving their usefulness.

Anger rose in her at how Sherlock could do this to them. Make them feel the center or at least orbit a great sun to only have it go out. Leaving them cold and in the dark. Only the two of them to find warmth on their own. Well now they have each other.

Moving in she joins him in the shower. He looks up at her. Did what happen just really happen runs through his head. She smiles the answer, yes. He smiles back. Maybe today will be a better day.

"You alright?" she ask as she looks at him through the water.

"I am, surprisingly." He rests his head on his knees. "I need to get to work."

"Call out."

"Why?'

"So you can spend the day home."

"So you are staying?" Hearing the lost boy. The wounded soldier.

"Yes," where else would she go? She had traveled. But there was no place like home. No place that she could call home. But maybe she could have some peace of mind.

"For how long?"

"How long do you want me to?" he laughs. Knowing nothing can hold her down. Not even a waste such as himself. Digging his hand into his arm. The scabs being lifted to let blood flow. Pain spread.

Watching the blood run down his arm. Mixing with the water of the shower. Rivering between her legs to escape. Never much into blood play. John wasn't either. He just needed the pain. Pain she knew how to deal. He had allowed it. Relished in it even. How odd from the man she once observed. A raindrop on the windshield. Being swept away by the wipers.

Hands moving she places them on the man. A man who was a shadow. A blogger of a once underestimated detective. Who's life now is like the once great empire of Rome. So long to build. So easy to destroy.

"John, I'm still here. I have no where else to go."

"Two lost sheep."

"No, two loyal dogs to one sheep. And no more flock to watch over." He looks up at her. They smile. Stupid wolfish grins.

"So what do we do now?"

"What we do best. Wreak havoc on the world." John laughs more. She's beginning to learn to love that sound. True John is/was the bishop to Sherlock's white knight. Now he is the white knight partnering up with the black queen. And the thing is. He doesn't mind. No matter how long she will reign. He will guard and not be alone.

HOW LONG?

AN: Please tell me what you think?


End file.
